Friday, December 7, 2012

Time Of Death ~ Excerpt From Ellis Vidler's Latest Book

And the winner is . . . Theresa! She won the book. Theresa, please let me know
what you want, print or eBook, Cold Comfort or Time of Death. :-) Email me at ellis@ellisvidler.com

Time of Death. Artist Alex Jenrette’s psychic streak is awakening after a long, quiet spell. When violence is near, she’s compelled to draw, and her sketches reflect the events she’s never seen.The Excerpt:“You’re drawing again.” Isobel picked up one of the loose pages
and examined it. “Are the visions coming back?”

The charcoal stick gripped in Alex’s hand darted across the sheet
in front of her as if driven by its own will. “Umm, maybe,” she mumbled, barely
aware of the question. Under her fingers, angry waves churned against the
shore. Like flotsam rising to the surface of the sea, a dark figure emerged in
the wake of the flying charcoal. She grabbed a scarlet pastel, smeared it through
the water around the body.

As suddenly as it had come, the tension drained from her.
She dropped the chalk and leaned back, rubbing her temples. “Blood. A man in
the water.”

“You haven’t done this since the boy in Asheville, have you?”

Isobel massaged her shoulders, and Alex arched her back,
leaning into her aunt’s hands. “This is the first time.”

“Any idea where this one is?”

“No. Only a man in water. Ocean, judging from the waves, but
I don’t know where.” Alex focused on the sketch, trying to see more, find
something to locate the scene, but nothing else came to her. She yawned. “It’s
gone now.” Nearly a year had passed since the last visions rendered themselves
through her hands. It happened shortly after Ty’s death, when she was more
vulnerable, maybe more open to the spiritual world. She hoped that was the end
of the unwelcome drawings, but she’d known they’d return if violence came near.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.” Alex couldn’t help this man. In Asheville, the boy had
been alive. The police, convinced she was a nut case, ignored her until one of
the searchers recognized the cave entrance from her sketch. He led the police
to the place, where they found the child, terrified and suffering from
exposure, tethered to a stake in the cold floor. Exactly as her drawings
showed.

“There’s no need to go to the police.” Alex shivered,
recalling the relentless interrogations, the suspicion her drawings engendered.
How could she know those details unless she was involved, they reasoned.
Psychic phenomena weren’t covered in the police manual.

While visiting near Charleston,
South Carolina, an artist draws
scenes of murder she can’t explain.

Alex, the artist.
After a tree falls on her house, she joins her aunt on an unspoiled island, but
something wakens her family psychic streak. She draws eerily accurate scenes of
violence, but she knows nothing about them.

Connor, the prosecutor.
He’s building a case against a drug lord one piece of evidence at a time. For
him it’s personal, and he can’t risk a relationship with a witness, especially
a psychic who’ll blow his case out of the water.

Rollins, the killer.
He’s a cog in a much bigger wheel, and the witness to his acts of violence
threatens his operation and his life. He’ll do anything to see that doesn’t
happen.